


blackbird

by michelllejones



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Internalized Homophobia, It's 1992, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Period-Typical Homophobia, and drinking? kind of, but only because they don't forget, that's dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 11:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelllejones/pseuds/michelllejones
Summary: “Ho-ly fuck,” Richie whispers, and Eddie has never been so fucking scared. Not when he saw the leper, not when he confronted his mother about his pills, not when they fought It in the sewers. Never. Eddie screws his eyes shut and clutches at the material of his jeans.Please be too high to notice, please be too high to notice, please be too high to notice“Eddie?”





	blackbird

**Author's Note:**

> if u want, have a listen to this [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/morganraeeann/playlist/5rf7ZflLPGj5AEI8ODYMgq?si=hDSNUubpTJmeJaFtBwqoPA) while u read 
> 
> ive come back from my accidental hiatus to give u this disaster, im so sorry... still read it tho
> 
> ps. a quick thank u to arin, my editor in crime, who i could not have finished this without i love u

Eddie Kaspbrak is in love. 

Or, he thinks he might be, seeing as though he’s never really been in love before. But as he stands, arms entangled and lips smudged against those of Derry High’s star quarterback behind the bleachers, he imagines this is _exactly_ what love is like.

They should not be here, out in the open where anyone can spot them, but they are and there are hands in his hair and a tongue in his mouth and Eddie cannot find enough strength to pull away. 

Not that he has much a choice, anyway, with the position he’s in at the moment. With his body pinned against a metal pole and his mouth practically cemented to another, Eddie doesn't really have anywhere else to go. 

And he doesn't mind it so much, or so he tells himself, even if his heart has somehow lodged itself into his throat and there’s an ache in the space between his ribs. Even if his fingers tremble ever so slightly and his pulse accelerates at every unidentified noise. Even if there’s a nasty voice in the back of his mind, scolding him and screaming that someone will catch them. Someone will see. Someone will tell. It takes everything in him to ignore the voice that taunts him, the voice that reminds him of who and _what_ he is. 

He hates that stupid voice. 

“Eddie,” another, much softer one sounds then, slips through kissed red lips that leave a trail of wet kisses along the column of his throat. “I want you to come to my party,” it murmurs against his skin, sends a shiver down his spine, “after homecoming.” 

Eddie blinks, mind hazy and thoughts jumbled. “What?” he asks dumbly, misses the warmth of the lips that’d just been on his moments ago. 

“My party. I want you to go,” comes the hushed tone again, this time a bit clearer. 

Oh. Eddie blinks again, captures a pair of green eyes with his and gives a tiny smile. “Okay,” he nods in a daze, “I’ll go.” 

A chaste kiss is pressed to his lips. 

“Bring your friends, too.”

-

It takes Eddie nearly a week to tell his friends about Homecoming.

For days, he contemplates even mentioning the party at all. His friends don’t even enjoy drinking that much, unless they are in someone's basement and it is just the seven of them alone. Which is fine, Eddie likes it better that way, too, but this is… different. Much different. 

“Ryan Foley invited me to his party after Homecoming,” Eddie blurts one day at lunch, “you guys, too.” 

When he glances up from his plate, he finds six pairs of wide, unblinking eyes as they stare at him in shock. And everything is silent then, even the background noise of the cafeteria fades, and Eddie is acutely aware of the words he’s just spoken. He’s never mentioned Ryan to his friends before, let alone anyone else. For all they know, Ryan Foley is just that not-so-douchey football player that they pass in the halls, not Eddie’s… Biting down on his tongue, Eddie mutes his thoughts and blinks back at his friends. He’s not sure what to say.

Across the table, blue eyes magnified behind lenses catch his, and Eddie feels caught. His cheeks burn red and an uncomfortable feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. 

“Since when are _you_ friends with Ryan Fuckhead Foley?” Richie snorts, his tone near accusatory. 

A frown tugs at the corners of Eddie’s mouth, drags the rest of his features down with it. “Since we started working together for our English project,” Eddie tells Richie coolly. _Since we started hooking up in his living room_. 

Richie’s lips twitch into a smirk. “And now you’re best friends?” He scoffs, disbelieving, and breaks their hostile gaze to cover his tater tots in Bill’s ranch. Beverly elbows him in the ribs both for the comment and the ranch. 

Eddie rolls his eyes but refuses to give in to the fight Richie wants so badly. He turns to the rest of their friends with an expectant look on his face. “He said it’s like right after the game, so…if you guys wanna…” he trails off, suddenly very self-aware. 

“Of course we’ll go, Eddie, it’ll be fun!” Beverly offers with a grin beside him, her smile warm but her eyes apologetic. Eddie grins back. 

“Anything sounds better than getting drunk in Bill’s backyard,” Stan adds, straight-faced and monotonous as he pokes around at his food.

A piece of lettuce is flung across the table in Stan’s direction, then, and Bill shouts “you love g-getting drunk in my b-backyard!” defensively over a chorus of agreements and giggles. 

Eddie does not talk to Richie for the rest of the day.

-

Homecoming night finds Eddie mashed between Mike and Ben as they sit amongst the crowd in the bleachers, jackets zipped up to their chins and fingers frozen stiff.

It is, Eddie thinks, the first time he has attended one of Derry High’s discouraging football games. From what he’s witnessing presently, he doesn't think he’s missed out on much. Brewer High has scored three touchdowns and Derry has shown little sign of recovery. Eddie has a less than ample understanding of football, he doesn't get much else besides the main idea is to score a touchdown and block the other players from doing so, but he knows enough to distinguish the losing team from the winning one. And Derry is certainly losing this game.

He knows his friends don’t really understand what’s happening, either, aside from Ben and Mike who have attempted countless times to explain the concept of the game. And every time, Richie assures them he knows exactly what is going on and makes a show of cheering on (read: heckling) his home team. 

“You call that a play?” Richie shrieks, hands cupped around his mouth to make himself louder, as if he’s ever had trouble being heard. “My goldfish could carry a ball better than that! And he’s a God damn fish!” 

Stan sits beside him, hands clamped down on his ears and a disgruntled look on his face. The look in his eyes screams regret, and Eddie can’t help but laugh in spite of him. 

Beverly laughs so hard her eyes screw shut, crinkles her freckled nose and manages to ask “do you even know what’s going on?” with a hiccuping giggle. Even though they all know the answer is no. No, he does not. 

Richie shrugs and throws his arm around her, an annoyingly smug look on his face. “I have no fucking clue.” 

Eddie almost laughs at that, but catches himself and turns his attention back to the game. Things between him and Richie have been… weird. Eddie can’t even remember the last time they’d talked, aside from their casual bickering at lunch. Richie doesn't visit him at his locker anymore, doesn't call him cute or ruffle his hair. But Eddie tries not to dwell on it, tells himself it’s not that big of deal. Even though, in a way. it sort of is.

It’s not like he particularly enjoys any of those things, anyway. He doesn't like when Richie keeps him from class, patronizes him for his height and messes up his hair. It’s annoying. At least, Eddie tells himself that it is. Richie is annoying. That’s just Richie. 

But he’s found he kind of misses it. In a weird way. The last few days have been oddly Richie-lacking, and Eddie finds himself wishing he had someone to argue with. Not that he’ll admit that out loud. The last thing Eddie needs Richie knowing is that he actually (hardly) likes when Richie bothers him. 

A horn sounds to signify half time, and when Eddie turns back to his friends, his eyes lock with Richie’s. It is the first time, in what feels like a very long time, that they have looked at one another. But Richie breaks the stare as soon as their eyes connect, and busies himself by offering his two cents on Bill and Stan’s heated discussion about whether or not mustard is better than ketchup. Eddie ignores the ache in he feels inside, and looks to Mike and Ben with a smile. 

“I’m gonna go get some hot chocolate, you guys want any?” He offers quickly, stands from his seat and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket in an attempt to warm them. 

Mike shakes his head and says, “Nah, I’m good, I think,” as Ben does the same. 

Eddie glances at the rest of them expectantly, though it doesn't appear that they’ve even heard him at all. Probably because Beverly is serving as some sort of buffer between Richie, Stan, and Bill, as they continue their passionate debate about concession food. 

“Why would I spend three dollars on nachos? That’s just stupid,” Richie is saying, hands gesturing wildly as he speaks, “I’ll just sneak in my own food.” 

“Like what?” Bill prompts incredulously.

Stan rolls his eyes and stops Richie before he even has a chance to start. “Sneaking in food is stupid. They’d catch you!” 

“Stanliam, please! They would not,” Richie argues, “I’d be subtle!”

“You are quite literally the least subtle human being on the planet, Richie,” Stan remarks, and Beverly laughs between them. A new argument begins, and a fond smile finds its way onto Eddie’s face. 

In a mumble, Eddie excuses himself and turns toward the steps, grabs a hold of the railing and descends with his head down. Tries hard to ignore the anxiety that bubbles and burns within him instantaneously. He starts to wonder if the party is a good idea, doesn't trust himself around Ryan when alcohol is involved. Doesn’t trust Ryan, either. He doesn’t even trust them when they're sober. And he worries, because he’s not sure what Ryan’s intentions are for tonight. Will he even see Ryan? Does Ryan even want to see him? 

Some evil part of Eddie tells him that all of this is a bad idea, that it’s all some elaborate practical joke that Eddie will certainly be the butt of. That something very bad is going to happen if he goes. 

Ignoring that voice has been getting harder and harder, but Eddie wills it away, silences it as best he can. _Ryan wants you there_ , he convinces himself, _he said he did_. 

As he approaches the concession stand, Eddie digs into his pocket and pulls out two, crinkled dollar bills. He steps in line, behind two girls who are chatting idly about something he can’t decipher, and fails to fight the frown that pulls at his mouth. Tonight has been anything but how he’d anticipated it to be, and he feels as though Richie has everything to do with it. Something has been off about him since Eddie revealed his (pseudo)friendship with Ryan, and Eddie’d be lying if he said it hasn't been driving him near insane. 

Very frequently does Richie distance himself from Eddie, or any of their friends for that matter. If anything, he’s constantly throwing himself onto them, always asking questions, always there. For Richie to be anything but that is almost disturbing. And it doesn't help that Eddie cannot pinpoint what it is he could've done, aside from the whole Ryan thing. But what does Richie care? For all he knows, they’re English partners. He doesn’t know… Eddie’s ears burn and his eyes dart around frantically, as if somehow someone will be able to hear his thoughts, he doesn’t know what we do.

The woman behind the concession stand waves him over then, cheeks flushed red and lips stretched wide. “What can I get for you hon?” She beams, eyes bright. 

“Um, can I just get a cup of hot chocolate?” Eddie asks and hands her the two dollar bills. He thanks her with a smile when she puts his order in, and shoves his hands into his pockets once again. He goes to turn around when suddenly, bounding footsteps sound behind him and someone is tugging on his elbow. 

“Wait! Make that two!” Richie pleads, and practically throws his money at the woman, who is completely unfazed by his arrival. She smiles, nods, and takes the money from its spot on the counter.

Eddie is immediately annoyed. “Why didn't you say anything when I asked you?” He sighs, eyebrows knitted together in exasperation. 

Richie folds his _bare_ arms across his chest, and says “I was busy proving a point,” as Eddie marvels in the fact that Richie doesn't even look cold. The windbreaker and a turtleneck he is currently sporting work… somewhat. As long as there’s no breeze (but there’s one every few seconds, so Eddie is forced to suffer in silence). It’s unfair that in thirty-degree weather, Richie has abandoned his jacket. He is about to ask when a younger girl from the concession stand calls out their orders. 

Eddie goes to reach for them but Richie is quicker, and he hands Eddie his cup with a kind smile on his face, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Eddie frowns. “You good, Rich?” He cautions, entirely suspicious of Richie’s behavior at the moment. It’s as if they haven't barely spoken a word to one another or spent time alone in a week. 

“Peachy keen, Eddie Bean!” Richie sings, though he looks anywhere but in Eddie’s direction. He focuses on the steaming cup in his hands, as he takes the lid off and leans forward to take a sip. 

Eddie makes a panicked noise, and swats at Richie’s head before he takes a drink. “Wait for it to cool down, dumbass! You’re gonna burn yourself!” He chides with a scowl. 

“Eds, calm—” Eddie’s nostrils flare, “— _Eddie_ —” Richie corrects himself, “calm down, will you? I got this.” He shakes his head and dips his tongue into the scorching drink. Eddie watches with an indignant look engraved on his face, is not surprised as Richie jolts back and yelps in shock when his tongue meets the hot chocolate. 

“Ow, holy shit-fuck!” 

Eddie takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What did I fucking say?”

-

“I knew Foreskin Foley had money, but God-fucking-damn his ‘rents are loaded!” Richie cries, flings his arms in the direction of the large house before them. “Who do I have to blow to get a place like this?”

“Beep Beep, Richie,” Eddie and Ben say in unison, to which Richie responds with a respective middle finger for each of them. 

The party appears to be in full swing as they approach the front door, where "Jump" can be heard through the speakers of a very expensive sounding stereo. There are certainly a lot of people, but the house is hardly as crowded as the movies portray. Only a cluster of people here and there. Once they step inside, unprecedented cries of excitement come from peers Eddie has never spoken to before but knows are most definitely drunk. 

Instantly, Eddie is filled with regret. Pressing his tongue into his cheek, apprehension takes hold of him and suddenly his nerves vibrate with anxiety. There’s no reason for him to be so scared, he thinks, he’s amongst friends and Ryan is around somewhere, but the voice is back and louder than ever, screaming that he should not be there. _It’s all a joke_ , the voice hisses, _it’s only a matter of time before you humiliate yourself_.

Beside him, Beverly whispers into Richie’s ear and something like jealousy (he’ll say it’s frustration) courses through Eddie as he watches Richie’s eyes shine with excitement, a grin spread across his features at her words. Eddie wonders just what she could've said that would warrant that kind of reaction. He is slightly offended that he is not in on the secret, too. 

“We’ll catch you guys in a bit, yeah?” Beverly turns to them with a mischievous look, lips twitching into a smirk before she hooks her arm with Richie’s and they disappear into the backyard. 

The five that remain stand together in the living room for a moment, before Stan sighs and mutters “I’ll go keep an eye on them,” with a frown. Though, it appears to be a façade, because as soon as he steps away from them he practically runs in their direction. 

“Twenty bucks says Stan gets high tonight,” Ben says with a chuckle, elbows Mike in the ribs lightheartedly. 

Bill nods enthusiastically, a wicked smile on his face. “I ho-hope he jumps in the p-pool with his clothes on ag-gain,” he giggles almost maniacally. 

Eddie rolls his eyes and is about to remind Bill of what happened the first time he got high at the quarry when a familiar smile shines through the crowd and catapults his heart into his throat. Words leave him then, when he catches it, his lips part and eyes go wide. 

_Ryan._

He’s got some dopey grin on his face, walks toward them with shining eyes and sparkly teeth. Ryan is, Eddie knows, as cliche as cliche can get. And yet, he cannot help the warm feeling that blankets him in that moment as he thinks but he’s mine. 

As he approaches, Eddie half expects Ryan to greet him with a kiss, and is disheartened when Ryan keeps a good distance between them instead. 

_He’s not going to kiss you right now_ Eddie scolds himself _not in front of all these people_.

“Kaspbrak and Company!” Ryan greets, and the glaze over his eyes tells Eddie that he’s already had a drink or two. 

His friends say their hellos, though it is obvious they are slightly uncomfortable. Which is most likely due to the fact that Ryan has probably spoken to each of them approximately never throughout their days at Derry High. Despite this, Ryan gives a polite smile and welcomes them into his home.

“Eddie, come on, I’ll get you a drink,” Ryan nods his head toward the kitchen, then, “you guys want anything?” he extends the offer to his friends, who shake their heads. 

“We’re good for now, I think,” Ben says with a kind smile, “thanks though!” 

Nervous laughter bubbles in Eddie’s chest and escapes through a hesitant mouth as he shakes his head and tries to say, “No, I don’t think—”, but is cut off when Ryan throws an arm around his shoulders and drags him to the kitchen, abandoning his friends in the living room. 

“Just one won’t kill ya, Ed! C’mon,” Ryan urges, and plucks a beer from the fridge before he thrusts it into Eddie’s hands. 

Trepidation festers deep within Eddie, then, as he blinks down at the can in his hands and then up at Ryan, who grins at him in anticipation. “Uh,” Eddie breathes, unsure of what he’s meant to do in this situation. He looks around the kitchen and makes sure they’re alone before he whispers, “Ryan, I don’t really think this is a good idea,” with a settling frown. Because it’s not. Eddie’s only ever been drunk a few times, and from what he’s been told he’s far more affectionate intoxicated than he is sober. And he’s afraid of what he might do around Ryan, afraid of what he’ll say or even _think_ in front of their peers. 

Ryan, however, doesn’t appear worried in the slightest. He reaches over and pops the can open for Eddie, and nudges it towards his lips. “Come _on_ ,” he whines, “have some fun, let loose, Kaspbrak!” he encourages with a lopsided grin, and Eddie winces at how much Ryan reminds him of Richie in that moment. _Not Richie_ he thinks with a wince, _Ryan is_ not _Richie_. “I’ll take care of you,” Ryan promises in a quiet voice, and Eddie softens instantly. 

“Okay,” he gives in with a sigh, “but I’m only having one,” he persists, though Ryan doesn't seem to be listening. 

Ryan pushes the beer up to Eddie’s mouth. “Throw it back, Kaspbrak!” he howls. 

Eddie gives Ryan one last doubtful look, but follows his orders anyway. The voice is back, intrusive and demanding, but Eddie pays it no mind as he tosses his head and chugs the beer in his hands. 

It doesn't take long before Ryan hands him another, and another, and another, until Eddie loses count somewhere along the way. Doesn’t even realize he’s drunk until he stumbles across the room in search of the staircase. He forgets he’s even at a party as he makes an embarrassing attempt to climb them once they are in his line of sight, desperate to find some place to lay down. He is about to give up and sleep right where he is, when he feels a warm hand on his waist and another on his shoulder. In a daze, he looks up through hooded eyelids and expects to find Richie, or another one of his friends, but finds Ryan instead. He leans his head back, isn't even startled when it lands on Ryan’s shoulder, and smiles. 

“M’tired,” Eddie slurs, and promptly bursts into a fit of giggles after he falls forward clumsily, having tripped over one of the steps. 

Ryan laughs and tightens his grip on Eddie to keep him upright. Wherever Ryan touches, Eddie burns. “Okay, let’s go lay down,” Ryan murmurs right into Eddie’s ear, sends a chill down his spine. 

It takes them what feels like a century to a very drunk Eddie to find a room, though that may be partially his fault. He falls over his feet as soon as they reach the landing, and then insists he sit down for a good minute or two before he can stand again. Ryan is patient, smiles down at him and then coaxes a red solo cup into his hands. 

“No,” Eddie whines, because his stomach is bloated and he’s so dizzy he can’t even walk straight (hence why he’s sitting down). But his stubbornness has been muddled into reluctant compliance, and he doesn't put up a fight when Ryan lifts the drink to his lips and ingenuously insists he drink some. He takes a few sips (read: gulps, and some of it spills onto his shirt when he tilts the cup a little too much) and hands it back to Ryan, who smiles down at him, impressed. 

After a moment, he helps Eddie to his feet and guides him toward a room that Eddie knows is Ryan’s, because he’s been in there more than he’ll ever admit. Typically, Eddie would slip out of his shoes and wait for Ryan to wave him over to the bed, but as soon as the familiar queen-sized mattress falls into view, Eddie practically throws himself onto it. Sleep beckons him as he settles into the bed; eyes heavy and stinging with exhaustion, head ringing, body vibrating to the techno-beat of "Rhythm Is A Dancer". It’s almost peaceful.

“I really hope,” Eddie mumbles into a pillow, “you didn't pick this mix.” 

Ryan gives a throaty chuckle, and the space beside Eddie sinks and suddenly there is soft skin pressed to his own. He turns his head and looks up at Ryan, who leans on his elbow and looks back at Eddie with dark eyes. 

“Of course not,” Ryan says, voice barely above a whisper as he leans down and touches his lips to Eddie’s, capturing them in a kiss. His mouth is warm and the feeling of it is enough to wake Eddie up, despite the fact that he’d been near passing out just seconds ago. 

His kisses come labored and lazy, though Ryan seems to be in some sort of hurry as he pushes Eddie’s lips apart with his own so their kisses are open and full of hot breath. Ryan brings a calloused hand to Eddie’s cheek, slides the pad of his thumb over Eddie’s bottom lip, eliciting a strangled noise from Eddie’s throat.

They kiss like this for a while, open mouths connected, moving gradually and a bit sloppily. Though, this is mostly on Eddie’s behalf, who is too drunk to put any real effort into it. 

Something sounds from the hallway, and Eddie jumps away from Ryan as if he’s been burnt. They sit, frozen in fear, and share a startled look between them. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut as he listens for whoever is just outside the room, but then another door opens and shuts and all he can make out are drunken giggles. A wave of relief rushes over him then, and he opens his eyes in time to catch Ryan as he moves toward Eddie again. 

Heart thudding against his chest, Eddie pushes at Ryan’s gently. “I don’t think…it’s safe,” he whispers slowly, the alcohol in his system preventing him from forming a coherent sentence efficiently.

Ryan sits up with a sigh and reaches for Eddie’s face in the dark. “No one’s gonna find us, okay? We’re okay…” he reassures him, kisses the corner of his mouth.

But Eddie’s not so sure. There are a lot of people downstairs, and he knows Ryan didn't lock the door behind them. Someone could barge in at any moment. Someone could catch them. “The door—”

The words fall dead on his tongue, and disappear with a sigh as Ryan quiets him with a fervent kiss. “It’s fine, Eddie,” he mumbles against his lips, but Eddie doesn't think it’s fine. It’s not fine. But now Ryan hovers over him, a hand flat against the bed beside him and another on his hip, and thinking is _hard_. Cool fingertips find their away underneath the material of Eddie’s shirt, squeeze, and Eddie is helpless. Unwilling and unable to pull away or tell Ryan to stop. He’s not even sure he wants that, anyway.

Hot, wet kisses trail across Eddie’s jaw, then, and down his throat, across his collar bones. Warmth pools in Eddie’s stomach, makes him squirm and cave into every touch, every kiss that Ryan gives him. As fingers dig into Eddie’s waist, it takes everything in him not to whimper. He guesses that maybe, as long as they're quiet, no one will know. No one will find them. 

_It’s okay_ , he hears Ryan’s voice in his head, finds that it calms him, _we’re okay_. 

He lets himself melt into Ryan’s touch then, allows the fingers in his hair to tug at his curls and the teeth on his skin to graze against his collarbones. Lifts his arms when eager hands pull at his shirt, lets his fingers brush along the soft skin of Ryan’s stomach. Scrapes his fingernails gently along the trail of hair that disappears into Ryan’s Levis, relishes in the moan he hears as a result. His entire body vibrates with electricity. He wonders, briefly, if he is dreaming. Because he’s had dreams like this before, plenty of them, where he kisses Ryan in his bed until their lips are swollen and breaths uneven.

And just like that, soft, plush lips are back on his, though the kisses are harder and much more urgent then they had been moments ago, and tear Eddie away from his thoughts. It’s all a bit much for Eddie, who is still having a hard time differentiating between what is real and what is fake, who’s mind is still buzzing with intoxication. He tries to keep up, but can’t will his mouth and his fingers to move as quickly as Ryan’s. There is no space between them now, no air for them to breathe, as they lay flush on Ryan’s childhood bed. The same bed he’d kissed Eddie on for the first time all those weeks ago. 

_“I like you, Kaspbrak,” Ryan says honestly, a smirk on his face._

_Eddie blanches. “Uh…” He’s not sure what to say, “yeah, you’re cool, too, Ryan,” he replies, and confusion coats every syllable. Because he is just that: confused. They’ve been partners for all of one week. Before this project, they'd hardly spoken a word to one another. And Eddie’s never exactly been likable._

_“No, Eddie,” Ryan sighs, “I_ like _you,” he insists, and this time he doesn't wait for Eddie’s response. He kisses him instead._

There is a hand in Eddie’s jeans now, and Eddie is acutely aware of how hot he feels. His entire body is on fire, everywhere Ryan touches him, everywhere Ryan does not. And he finds himself wanting more, practically begs for it, but he is scared; scared to ask, scared of the fact that he even wants it, scared that he is only this desperate because of the alcohol he’s ingested. At this, he grows hesitant. Maybe they shouldn’t…

He is about to voice his concerns when the doorknob rattles and the door creaks open, and Eddie jolts away from Ryan as if lightning struck between them. Frantically, he reaches for his shirt and hopes whoever has walked in on them is too drunk to realize that he’s not wearing it. Too drunk to notice who he is. 

Eyes wide and unblinking, Eddie gapes at the figure in the doorway, who has not moved or spoken since they opened the door. His chest heaves up and down, both from the horror that rips through his core and the lack of oxygen he’s received for the last… however long it’s been. He refuses to look at Ryan, too ashamed to even think of him. 

“Woah, sorry…s’not the bathroom,” a sickeningly familiar voice sounds from across the room, emits from the stranger that Eddie now knows is not that, but rather, the last person he ever wanted to catch him in this predicament. “Oh hey, Ryan, sorry man, I didn't mean to…” the voice fades, the tension in the air suffocating. 

Eddie screws his eyes shut and clutches at the material of his jeans. _Please be too high to notice, please be too high to notice, please be too high to notice_ he inwardly begs, panic spreading within him.

But Eddie’s never been lucky. The day his father died was the day his fortune did, too, disappeared when it’d been buried six feet underground with a man he does not remember. 

When he opens his eyes, his fingers shake as he finds Richie’s in the darkness. 

“Ho-ly fuck,” Richie whispers, and Eddie has never been so fucking scared. Not when he saw the leper, not when he confronted his mother about his pills, not when they fought _It_ in the sewers. _Never_. 

“ _Eddie?_ ”

Eddie’s lungs fail him, then, and it’s impossible to breathe. His throat constricts as anxiety leaves him numb and powerless, and he wishes he had that damn inhaler somewhere on his person. But he’s made a habit of leaving it at home when he goes places because he hasn't needed it, not like this. Not for a very, very long time. 

“Dude, shut the fucking door!” Ryan roars suddenly, as he leaps from the bed and shoves Richie with so much force that he stumbles and falls against the wall. Eddie finds himself reaching out to Richie, who looks as _betrayed_ as he does confused, their eyes united in a hopeless gaze for one heartbreaking moment.

It breaks when Ryan slams the door shut, and Eddie bursts into tears.

-

Richie and Eddie do not talk about what happened the night of Homecoming.

They do not talk _at all_. 

Their eyes do not meet across the hallway, or at the table during lunch. Richie does not pester Eddie before class and Eddie does not nag him about his lack of winter clothes. When they are near each other, the air between them is stiff and frigid. It is anything but subtle.

Richie and Beverly make a not so discreet routine of abandoning their food to smoke behind the cafeteria, and Eddie ignores the not so discreet knife in his chest. Dread holds him captive as he watches them walk through the exit, and hopes to God that Richie is not upset enough to tell his secret. 

_Their_ secret. 

Bill pulls him aside the next week and says something that Eddie thinks sounds an awful lot like “you should talk to R-Richie,” but he’s been so far away, so in his head, that everything sounds muffled and distorted. He remembers making a promise that he would do just that but makes no attempt to keep it. He does everything but. 

Eddie spends Halloween with Ryan and tells his friends his mother won’t let him leave the house, even though he knows they will see right through his half-attempted lie because Eddie has never been good at telling them. He pretends to be unbothered when the six of them recount events from the night he missed out on, but it’s hard when it becomes the only thing they can talk about. 

As the weeks pass by, Eddie finds himself with Ryan more than he’s with anyone else. He sees Ryan more than he does his own mother. Somehow, he manages to convince himself that he deserves that much. He at least deserves to have Ryan, to keep what they have and hold it as close to his heart as he can, no matter how wrong he knows it is. He doesn't care because all he needs is Ryan, and no one else. 

As long as they are together, nothing can touch them.

But life has a funny way of teaching lessons, and Ryan is torn away from him in an instant, quite literally, as he is forced to watch from the sidelines, much like he had the night of Homecoming; weak and impotent. But unlike that night, Eddie cannot find comfort in Ryan’s arms, cannot hide away in the haven that is his room. So he runs. 

He runs and runs and runs, despite the frigid fall air that bites at his skin, until he is standing in front of the public library, lungs aflame and eyes stinging with tears. The building before him is dark and empty, much like how he feels in this moment. Its shadow looms over him, like a dark cloud on a sunny day, and Eddie tries to fight the fear that is threatening to devour him. 

With a shuddery breath, Eddie turns his gaze from the library and looks down the street, takes note of the payphone a little ways from where he stands. There’s an ache in his shins and a stabbing pain in his chest, and all he wants to do is sleep and never wake up, but Eddie ignores all of it and walks toward the phone, determined.

And he hates himself for it, but he can’t think of anyone else to call, can’t think of anyone else that will answer, anyone else that will be there. His options are narrowed down to one. 

So, he dials the only other number he knows by heart and holds the payphone in an unsteady hand. He listens to the dial tone and waits. 

Forever passes until finally, the line clicks and Eddie knows someone has picked up the phone. Silence is all that greets him for seconds that last too long, and when he hears the scratchy voice he’s grown to love, he wastes no time saying hello. 

“Can you come pick me up?”

There is not a single part of him that is not screaming to hang up. That this, like most things as of late, is a very bad idea. That he should keep running while he’s ahead. 

But there’s a shuffling noise on the other end, and a deep, hesitant breath, and Eddie is both afraid of and relieved by the whispered question of “Where are you?” he gets in response. 

It takes longer than it should for him to answer, but he is plagued by fear in that moment, and it has stolen his ability to speak. This phone call is a mistake, he thinks, a big, stupid mistake. Begging Richie Tozier to drive into the night to save Eddie from his own demise is the last thing he should be doing. The ache in his legs, and in his chest, however, tell him that he has no other choice. 

“The library,” Eddie falters, clutches the phone so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Hold on,” Richie says, sounding very, very distant before the line goes dead.

Eddie sits on the curb in absolute silence, broken and alone, counts the seconds as they tick by. And he tries not to, but he cries. Cries because he’s scared, because he’s hurt, because he’s _tired_. He is tired of feeling so afraid, tired of how much he feels all of it; the pain and the sorrow and the weight of a heavy heart in his chest. Every day is harder than the last, and Eddie’s not sure how much longer he can take it. Numbness spreads from his heart and through every vein that runs through his body, blocks out the cold and the grief with it. 

He wipes his face dry when he catches headlights down the road, and waits for the familiar vehicle to approach him before he stands to his feet. He reaches for the door, but jumps back when Richie pushes it open himself.

He does not meet Eddie’s gaze then, and he still won’t, even as they sit in silence now that Eddie’s settled into the passenger seat. All of Eddie wants to scream, hyperaware of how awkward the atmosphere that engulfs them is. 

“Are you in love with him?” Richie asks suddenly, and makes a point to look anywhere but at Eddie. Instead, he focuses only on the peeling leather of his steering wheel, picks at it in some attempt to busy himself.

Eddie’s entire body goes rigid at his question. It is unprecedented and bit frightening, and Richie sounds so… vulnerable in that moment that his tone is almost unrecognizable. He does not sound like Richie.

Eddie carefully, calculatedly, thinks over his words and blinks. His cheeks burn at the question, and hates that Richie doesn't even have to say his name. Hates that he knows exactly who he is talking about.

He gives Richie a guilty look that he does not catch, because he still refuses to turn towards Eddie. With a thick swallow, Eddie considers the question. He hasn’t even thought about it before. He really does not know if he loves Ryan… _Do I?_

“I dunno,” he says aloud, both to himself and to Richie. Because he honestly does not know. Not anymore, anyhow. Eddie’s not entirely sure what love is even supposed to feel like. He knows how it feels to love his friends, maybe. It feels like sticky summer days and the sound of them laughing in harmony. It feels like stupid, nonsensical conversations that carry on into the early hours of the morning at sleepovers and ridiculous inside jokes. But he’s—he isn’t—being in love is so much different. At least, he assumes that it is. Being in love with someone is heartache and a warm, queasy feeling in your stomach. Or so he thinks, because he truly cannot say if he’s felt that. He doesn’t think that he has. He glances at Richie once again.

Not for Ryan, anyway. 

But how do you know if what you feel for someone is love? When you’ve never even really felt it before? 

“I care about him,” Eddie concedes in a small voice. Like he’s afraid to even admit just that. As if saying it will be enough to make Richie hate him. He winces at the thought: Richie Tozier, his best friend, despising him. Being repulsed by him. _If he isn’t already._

Suddenly, his throat is painfully dry, like all the saliva just evaporated into the air somehow with four simple words. His heartbeat is ringing in his ears. “I like him,” Eddie says. And it’s true. Ryan was always so warm and kind, his touches soft and careful. He made Eddie laugh, too. He made him feel safe. 

The thought of him, now, however, makes his chest burn. 

He does not fully understand what he has revealed until he sees the way Richie shifts in the driver’s seat. And he pauses then, because he’s never… talked about it before. _This_. Having feelings for another person—another boy. 

A chill rushes through him as he waits, but Richie remains silent. And it’s unsettling, because it is so unlike Richie.

Eddie’s fingers tremble against his thighs. He is terrified. 

He’s never confessed it out loud. Not to himself. Not to Ryan—even when they were up in his room with their open mouths pressed together and hands in each others hair. Any time he tried, it was like an invisible hand clamped around his throat and suddenly, choking the words out was hopeless. His hands would shake and his chest would constrict and tighten, and then he was reaching for an inhaler that had not been there in years, wishing that it was.

That’s not to say that the thought of telling his friends—telling Richie—hadn’t occurred to him before. There was last Christmas, when Bev somehow convinced him to drink the vodka she’d swiped from her aunts liquor cabinet. He supposed that being stripped of his sobriety would make it easier. Maybe, this once, he could say it without freezing… 

The most he’d confessed, however, was that he was the one who broke Mrs. Uris’s vase when they were nine—not Richie, who he’d cowardly accused in fear of getting in trouble. 

_“I fucking knew it was you, Spaghetti,” Richie crows, and then reaches over to pull Eddie flush into his side. He pinches his cheek and says “Good thing you’re too cute to be mad at,” with a teasing grin, fingers in Eddie’s curls._

_Eddie shoves him away, but not with any real force. He giggles and grabs the hand that is ruffling his hair. “I knew—“ he hiccups, “—she would believe me if I told her it was you. I’m real sorry,” Eddie says soberly, because he really is sorry. He’s felt bad about that for the last seven years._

_Richie looks at him thoughtfully, a glint of something unidentifiable in his eyes. Eddie doesn’t let go of Richie’s hand._

_And Richie does not let go of his. Even as he pouts and grumbles, “I had to pay for that, you know.” Eddie frowns then, feeling guilty._

_Stan makes a noise of disbelief from behind them and says, maybe a little too loudly, “with money that you stole from me!”_

_The seven of them laugh so hard they are gasping for breath and by the end of it they are wiping tears from their eyes. And Eddie is overcome with how much warming affection he feels for his friends rush through him in that moment._

_Eddie looks to Richie again, and had he not been inebriated he would have blushed when their eyes met He squeezes Richie’s hand, and Richie squeezes back._

The sound of a car engine roaring to life shakes Eddie out of his reverie, and as he turns his gaze to Richie apprehensively, he’s forced to face the reality of the situation before him: Richie hates him. He is disgusted by him, never wants to see him again. He detests Eddie so much that he can’t even look at him. Wants to drop him off at home as soon as possible so he can put as much distance between them as he can. 

But…Richie doesn’t drive. He just sits. Stares. The car is still in park and although his hands are resting on the steering wheel, he is making no effort to go anywhere. His eyes remain transfixed on something down the street, his mind seemingly very far away.

Eddie feels like he is seconds away from spontaneously combusting. He cannot recall a time that Richie was this quiet. Maybe the sewers… he shudders at the thought.

“Why didn't you…” Richie breathes, and pauses as though he’s afraid to say what he wants to. He swallows hard and finally turns his head so that he can meet Eddie’s eyes. And Eddie is shocked to see that the emotion in them is similar to that of dejection. _Pain_. It is so unmistakably clear through the magnifying lenses of his glasses, so piercing and prominent that Eddie almost does not recognize the blue eyes boring into him in that moment.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Richie asks, much more audible this time. Though his voice is wavering and thick with an emotion Eddie isn't sure he wants to identify. “About Ryan? I don’t care that you—y’know—were sucking face and shit, or, playing tonsil hockey—whatever you guys were doing. I don't care, I just. I don’t know, Eds. Why wouldn't you just…” he adjusts his glasses and promptly turns away from Eddie again, “tell me?” 

Now Eddie is the one who is unable to think of an answer. Despite that he knows perfectly well why he did not tell Richie, or anyone else for that matter. 

With a settling frown, Eddie looks down at his hands. “I don’t know,” he chews on his bottom lip as he says this, and decides that it is answer enough. Though it is a lie, because he does know. 

_I didn’t want you to hate me_ is what he wants to say, and wishes he was brave enough to.

_I don’t want you to hate me_

A muscle in Richie’s jaw twitches then, and for a second Eddie fears that he is going to explode. That he is going to scream at Eddie to get out of his car and never speak to him again. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, drowns out the daunting silence between them. The air is thick and palpable, as if it contains all of the things they want to say but won’t. Can’t. And it is killing him.

Yet, silence is all that remains for a number of minutes, minutes that stretch on and on and start to feel like hours. And it is so unbelievably, painfully insufferable that Eddie starts to feel the threat of a panic attack settle low in his stomach. It is bubbling, expanding, as he sits in the passenger seat of his best friend’s Volvo and waits for him to say something. _Anything_. 

“Eddie,” Richie speaks as he moves, but only to yank his keys from the ignition and kill the engine. He turns to face Eddie, and Eddie bites hard down onto his tongue. Can’t bring himself to look.

“Eds,” Richie tries again. The nickname catches Eddie so off guard that he nearly flinches when he hears it roll off of Richie’s tongue.

His eyes leave the lines of his palms to meet Richie’s, and is surprised to see the somber expression on his face. It is not something he sees very often. 

Something about this moment feels almost intimate, private—like it is theirs and no one else’s, and it never will be. There is no one around to see them this way: quiet and broken and afraid. 

“What happened?” Richie’s voice sounds again, and it is… so much softer than Eddie has ever expected to hear in his lifetime. It is smooth like velvet and coated thick with something that says _I want to know if you’re okay._

_Shit_ , is the first thought in Eddie’s mind, because now he has to tell Richie. He can’t lie anymore—not with the look Richie is giving him presently, curious and attentive, with his dark eyes big and stoic in the moonlight. Tears immediately rush to Eddie’s eyes as he recalls the events of the night. 

_Shit shit shit_

There are almost a thousand things Eddie would rather do than relive what he went through earlier tonight, but he figures that if there were ever a time to tell anyone, and if there were ever anyone to tell—it would be right now in this car. And it would be Richie. He has to tell Richie. No matter how much he does not want to. 

His hands are shaking again, and there’s a buzzing sensation that runs from his head down to his toes, but he opens his mouth and looks to Richie with an expression he is sure looks piteously pathetic, and takes a deep breath.

“He found out,” Eddie whispers finally, “His dad… he saw us, Richie, and he,” a sob pushes its way through Eddie’s core and out of his mouth, “God, I’ve never seen—even Henry hasn’t—fuck,” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath again in an attempt to steel himself. Richie sits beside him, offering a look of understanding and… patience. He is waiting, waiting for Eddie to tell him. Eddie’s heart swells and shatters all at once. “We were being stupid, I knew it. I told Ryan that we shouldn’t have been in the basement. I fucking told him that,” He wipes at his eyes profusely, though it is no use. The tears keep falling and he feels like it is happening all over again. He grips his thigh to anchor himself and takes in another breath, shuddery and trembling. 

“His dad was so… angry,” he recounts, “I’ve never seen that look on someone’s face before, Rich. I thought he was going to kill us,” Eddie remembers the way his body went stiff at the sight of Ryan’s father, whose irises had been painted black by something almost murderous. _He almost killed him._ Eddie can’t bring himself to say those words out loud, because he’s still not sure that this is real and he is terrified that saying them will make it just that. “I’ve never seen someone’s face bleed so much,” Eddie sputters in a pathetically small voice. He sounds so much like he did at twelve—meager, afraid, fragile—that he’s embarrassed for it. 

Richie is still uncharacteristically quiet next to him, as he sits and listens with a pensive look on his face. He blinks once. Twice. Then a third and a fourth time and Eddie thinks he must have broken him. Richie licks his lips and parts them as if he is going to say something, takes one hand from the steering wheel and reaches for Eddie as if he is going to touch him, but his face drops with his appendages and he twists forward with a frown. 

If there were ever a time for Richie to _not_ be quiet, it would be right now. 

“Did his—are you… okay?” Richie asks apprehensively, but then immediately shakes his head. “Fuck, obviously you’re not, but I just mean… shit. The old asshole didn’t—he didn't touch you, did he?” Richie demands, and when Eddie glances back up at him he sees now that Richie has turned his entire body to face him again, hands twitchy and eyes wide with worry behind dirty lenses. Panic flashes across his features, lighting up his face in the worst way. 

Eddie shakes his head and feels his chest warm at the thought of Richie worrying about him. “No, no,” he whispers, “he didn't even come near me. He just… He just said he was going to tell my mother. Like he didn't just—” And then, as he says this, Eddie is reminded of Mr. Foley’s threat, knows that he has most certainly called his mother, and the tears are back. This time, however, they rack his entire body and sobs rip through him like a tornado. 

He cries into his hands, so overwhelmed by this realization—that his mother _knows_ —and he despises himself for having a secret to hide in the first place. And that dumb voice blames him, then, for ending up the way that he has, for feeling the way he does. It’s a cruel joke—it has to be—some form of punishment for something bad thing he did way back when. But it is his fault. And he deserves it—or so the shrill voice tells him.

The voice that eerily reminds him of his mother.

Controlled by fear and manipulated by misconceptions, it is undoubtedly Sonia Kaspbrak’s fault that Eddie is _this_ way. It is her fault, and hers alone, that he can not feel comfortable in his own home, in his own skin. She would probably roll over and die if she ever found out the truth about her own son; the no-good, rotten, dirty truth. 

_Boys who kiss boys are sick_ , Eddie she’d chastised him one afternoon, when she’d caught him listening to Elton John, lip curled and eyes dark _stay away from them._

And now, because he had been so stupidly reckless with Ryan, so careless and naive, his mother knows. She fucking knows. Her son, her only child and her only family, is something she does not accept, does not condone, does not understand. She never will.

He breaks down, right in front of Richie, for what seems like the millionth time that night. Under any other circumstance, he might’ve regretted it. But nothing about tonight is like any other circumstance, and Eddie, strangely, is glad that it is Richie he is crying in front of. 

Richie unbuckles his seat belt and awkwardly pulls Eddie into him, because the console is between them and Eddie still has his seatbelt on. Eddie throws his arms around Richie’s neck and cries into his shoulder, anyway. And he is incredibly thankful that he is not alone right now. 

“I don’t want to go home,” Eddie chokes out, his cheeks wet with tears that will not cease, “I can’t. Not tonight—she knows, Richie, fuck—she fucking knows!” He hiccups, and frantically digs his fingers into Richie’s shoulder, who has not said anything for quite some time. It is both comforting and frightening all at once. 

There is a warm and gentle hand soothing circles into the small of Eddie’s back and another clutching his side, and he wonders just when Richie got so good at this; being tender and empathetic and _soft_. It is so much unlike who he is during the day, underneath the sun that serves as his spotlight and in the company of his friends who, essentially, become his audience. And as much as he loves that version of Richie—Eddie thinks he likes this version a little bit more. 

“Okay,” Richie says after a while, “then we won’t go home.” 

If he had not cried so much already, Eddie is sure he would be drowning in tears upon hearing these words. Chest warming, Eddie sniffs and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Where, then?” He asks, his voice tired and hoarse. 

Richie’s eyes light up just a bit, the corners of his mouth turning up with them. “You’ll see,” he says vaguely, though the excitement that radiates off of him is evident. 

Richie detangles himself from Eddie then, but not before he gives his waist a reassuring squeeze that sends something like an electric shock through Eddie’s body, and puts his keys back into the ignition. The engine revs to life and drowns out the silence with its rhythmic hum.

They drive through the town and then the neighborhoods, past Bill’s house and even past Stan’s. It dawns on Eddie that they are not headed toward the Barrens. He thinks he has a brief recollection of where it is that Richie is taking them, though it is foggy and barely even real. However, some piece of him feels as if he knows the exact place they are going, as if he and Richie are somehow on the same page despite that neither of them have spoken for some time. That small piece of him hopes he is right. 

As Richie drives past the bridge and down a dirt path that appears as though they are the only ones who have ever followed it, a faint memory of biking down this exact road plays on loop in Eddie’s mind. He squints off into the distance, wonders if the memories are real or just images from dreams he stopped having years ago. 

The road ends and Eddie knows it is the place he has let himself forget, somewhere he has not been to or even thought about for years now. It is somewhere they’d only visited on the rare occasion that it was just the two of them, back then when they were young and Eddie did not like going places if Bill would not be there. It is somewhere that, during those infrequent expeditions they’d take in this open space, a pair of coke-bottled glasses and an oversized fanny-pack had made it their own. 

Eddie looks to Richie, who has yet to say anything, eyes wide and unbelieving, and is shocked that he even remembers it, considering how little time they’d spent there and how seemingly insignificant it’d been then. Eddie, however, isn't sure if it only seemed that way because he’d forced himself to believe that it was.

Before _that_ summer, before they met Beverly and Ben and Mike and fought for each other in the darkness of the sewers, it had always been the four of them: Bill, Stan, Richie, and Eddie. Richie, Eddie, Stan, and Bill. For years, they spent their days playing in the dirt and racing each other up the hill on their bikes and following Bill to the ends of Derry and back. 

Some of those days, though—some were spent just with Richie, in Eddie’s garage when the Derry rain made playing outside miserable and dangerous and there was nothing to do but sit and read comics together. Or escape here: in an open field a little ways past the Kenduskeag, farther than either of their parents would ever let them venture, far enough away that nobody could find them.

Richie pulls his car away from the path and parks in some kind of clearing, where the grass is not so tall and kills the engine without a word. He looks over at Eddie and gives a modest smile.

“It was the safest place I could think of,” Richie breaks the silence finally, to which Eddie can only give a nod in response. His heart has taken residence in his throat. He is suddenly overcome by how much he appreciates Richie in this moment. In any moment. How much he appreciates him _always._

For a little while, they sit, still and considerate. It’s almost comfortable. A small part of Eddie wants to reach for Richie’s hand, hold it close to his chest and express how thankful he is for him. How glad he is that they are here, in a place they’d claimed as their own all those years ago, together. How happy he is that Richie does not hate him, even if he should. He has every reason to. 

But Eddie does not do any of these things, instead, he keeps his lips pursed and bites down on his cheek, in some attempt to distract him from the yearning that burns in his chest. 

Richie is the first to move, and though the action is so gentle and small, Eddie startles when the stagnant silence they have created is interrupted. Reaching over with a careful hand, Richie simply pats Eddie on the shoulder, before he pockets his keys and opens the car door. He steps out into the cold, shoves his hands into the pockets of a jacket Eddie is shocked he even owns, and waits.

Seconds pass before Eddie follows suit, eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion. They stand on either side of the hood, their expressions opposing the other. Richie stares at his car, looking thoughtful and almost inspired, as Eddie watches him with a crinkle between his eyes. He has little to no idea what Richie is thinking, what his intentions are. It is entirely frustrating how difficult it is to read him these days. 

“Is this the part where you kill me or something?” Eddie jokes meekly, voice timid and small though he does not mean for it to be. 

Richie blinks and then laughs, actually laughs, before he shakes his head and slides onto the hood of his extremely dusty car. “C’mon Eds, you and I both know I’m a lover,” he says matter of factly, “not a fighter.” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose up in distaste. “I really wish you’d stop saying that,” he remarks, regarding both the nickname and the phrase Richie’d coined all those years ago. Richie just looks at him with an expectant look and a faint smile on his face, pats the empty space next to him.

Shoulders heaving with an exaggerated sigh, Eddie apprehensively climbs on top of the hood and sits beside Richie, who leans against the windshield and throws his arms behind his head. Eddie pulls his knees into his chest, makes sure that he is not touching Richie, and glances up at the sky. In and instant, he is engulfed by the infinite sea of stars splattered across the night like paint on a canvas. He feels both insignificant and hopeful as he loses himself in the never-ending stretch of black and twinkling lights above him, feels like all the things that torment him in the day disappear with the sun behind the horizon, like his possibilities are as endless as the sky. 

He wonders if Richie feels the same.

Silence them falls over them like a blanket as they gaze up into the darkness, lost in an endless ocean of their private thoughts. Unspoken words float around them like particles of dust and dirt, and sink into Eddie’s chest like a heavy weight he is not sure he’s strong enough to carry. There are so many things he wants to say to Richie, so many words he wishes he had the courage to speak into existence. _I’m sorry,_ he should say, _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

The tired phrase plays in his mind like a broken record, and each time it does, Eddie grows closer and closer to saying it. But there is something he needs to tell Richie before he can apologize. Something he has to say. Anxious eyes flit between Richie and the stars, then, as an all too familiar feeling of panic seizes his lungs. 

“Richie,” Eddie exhales, his voice barely above a whisper, “I have to tell you something.” 

Beside him, Richie tenses, and if not for the light breeze, Eddie would swear he could hear a breath hitch in Richie’s throat. Subconsciously, Eddie is curious to know what Richie thinks it is that he is about to confess. 

Richie doesn’t turn his head or even move in the slightest, but instead glances over and meets Eddie’s eyes, his own illuminated by the silver light the moon provides from its place overhead. 

Now, Eddie is the one who has to catch his breath. He inhales steadily and braces himself for the words that are about to come out of his mouth. Words that he will never be able to take back, words that will solidify his apprehensions, that will cement his truth. Goosebumps rise on his skin as he parts his lips and says “I’m gay” timorously. The confession tumbles out of him clumsily, sounds near insincere and uncertain, as if he doesn’t even believe himself. Richie doesn't make a move.

“I just… you probably already knew that, but…” he trails off, cognizant of the two eyes burning holes into his face. Or so he imagines, because he has since twisted away from Richie and is unable to detect how he is looking at him then. Eddie shuts his eyes tight for one dreadful minute, and waits. It is not a patient or understanding anticipation of what his best friend’s response will be, but rather a fearful and disconnected sense of horrible despondence. It is a lonely, hollow feeling, and Eddie despises it. 

Richie is unusually reticent from his spot next to Eddie, and it is all the more harrowing, more so now than ever. There are so many things that Richie has the chance to say, yet he sits beside Eddie, face straight and eyes cryptic. Eddie can only imagine how consequently pathetic and helpless he looks. 

He is about to take back his words when Richie’s shoulders ease, and he unclasps his hands from behind his head and places his palms against the material of his jeans. Scoots close enough to Eddie that their hips touch. 

Eddie can’t bring himself to meet the eyes he knows are trained on him. 

“Eddie,” Richie says lowly, “listen to me, alright?” 

Eddie stares straight forward, refuses to turn his head. He nods, and mentally prepares for the hateful words Richie is going to spew at him. Because that’s how he will react, right? Surely he has been waiting for this exact moment, waiting for Eddie to cower and crack, so he can tear into him and reiterate the hateful words he’s seen and heard throughout Derry all his life.

“It’s—it’s okay, you know?” Richie says, and Eddie freezes, because his response is not thrown at him harshly, but rather handed to him, slowly and softly, something like understanding behind them. “It’s okay, that you’re… y’know,” he pauses to nudge Eddie with his shoulder. “It’s okay that you’re gay, alright?” Richie declares, his voice firmer now. “And if anyone has a problem with that, well then they have a problem with ol’ Trashmouth himself.” 

Eddie is nothing if not dumbfounded at Richie’s heartening words. He stares at him, expression blank despite the eloquent look in his eyes. There is nothing he can say to convey the alleviating gratitude that grows in his chest. He manages a half-hearted chuckle at Richie’s joke, because he is still struggling to comprehend the brevity of the things he said before. _It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay._ He almost believes him.

“No one else knows,” Eddie says, “I’ve never even said it out loud.” 

Richie’s eyebrows fly into his hairline, looks slightly skeptical. “Never?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Never. I don’t know how…” he stops and sucks in a sharp breath, a sudden realization dawning on him, then. _I don’t know how Ryan knew._ He never came out and admitted it, not even after everything they’d done together. The admission of Eddie’s sexuality was only ever something he heard within himself, whispered like a secret and written into his skin like invisible ink on paper. He is curious to know how Ryan figured it out, or if he’d just taken a huge risk when he leaned over and pressed his lips to Eddie’s all those weeks ago. 

“I don’t know how Ryan knew. I didn't want it to be true,” _I still don’t_ , “so I ignored it.” Eddie states with a frown, stares at the dying grass and decaying leaves on the ground beneath them. “Ryan didn’t even say it. He just kissed me,” Eddie acknowledges, and then remembers that Richie still doesn’t know the truth about him and Ryan. 

Selfishly, he thinks maybe it should remain a secret. Something just between himself and Ryan. Theirs and only theirs. But then he catches the muddled look on Richie’s face, and is forced to reconsider. 

“We were partners in English, that much is true,” Eddie sighs, lets his gaze fall to his lap, where he concentrates on the worn fabric instead of Richie. “That controversial topic project, remember?” Richie nods. “We picked like, the misconceptions of voting. How people think your vote doesn't count, or whatever. We would go to his house and work on it there,” as Eddie explains this, the void that fills his chest more prominent than ever. 

“And then like, a week later, he said he liked me and just kissed me. Out of nowhere. Like he knew I would let him…” he licks his lips and wipes his hands onto the material of his jeans. He’s almost forgotten how cold it is outside until he sees how red his fingertips are, and absentmindedly, he looks to Richie’s to see if his look the same. But Richie’s hands are clenched firmly in his lap, his fingers hidden from view. 

Quickly, Eddie looks back to his own hands, and continues his story. “So that’s how we started… y’know,” his ears burn, “hooking up and… stuff.” He is so incredibly embarrassed as he says these words, because when he says them out loud, they do not sound as magical as he had imagined they would when he finally told someone. That someone was undoubtedly Beverly every time he’d pictured it, sometimes it was Bill. But it was never Richie. Not once had he considered a scenario where it would be Richie Tozier, resident Trashmouth, that got to hear the not-so-miraculous tale of how he and Ryan came to be. 

Richie pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose with a quirked brow. For a while, he doesn't say a thing, which is frustrating all in itself, and Eddie wishes he would stop being so… not himself. Richie is not Richie if he is not the same, crude and ill-humored, unapologetic soul that Eddie has known for almost his entire life. 

“Oh,” is the only thing that comes from Richie after several moments pass, and Eddie cannot decide if the tone of Richie’s voice is disappointed or disheartened. 

With a dejected sigh, Eddie cards his fingers through his hair. Shifts so that he and Richie are no longer touching. Fixates on the scuff marks on his sneakers. Regret fills him then, as he and Richie sit in uncomfortable silence. He cannot help but feel unbelievably annoying. Richie didn't even ask to know about… whatever it was he had with Ryan. He probably didn't ever want to know, but Eddie’s never been one to keep secrets (prior to this year, obviously) and Richie’s always been there to listen. He listened when Eddie told him about the leper, about his nightmares and the lies his mother had been feeding him since his father passed away. But maybe this one thing was meant to be hidden, locked away in the confines of Eddie’s mind. Maybe this was the one thing Richie didn't want to listen to.

There is movement beside him, all of a sudden, and Eddie lifts his head to see that Richie’s upper body faces him now. He doesn’t appear to be disturbed or irritated like Eddie assumed he would be. His eyes are round and curious, lips twisted to the side inquisitively.

“So, Homecoming… you guys were like. A thing, then?” He asks, and Eddie pales at his question. 

“Uh,” he swallows despite the lump in his throat, “yeah. That’s why… That’s why I was up in his room.” 

Richie’s lips purse as he nods in assimilation. Eddie watches him carefully, waits for him to ask another question. Surely that wasn’t all he wanted to know, was it? They have yet to talk about that night, and Eddie thinks now is as good a time as any. But Richie does not say anything else, not for quite some time. In lieu of the conversation Eddie expects to follow, Richie picks at a loose string on his shirt and remains close-mouthed next to him. 

They sit quietly again, though this time the air is not so comfortable and Eddie does not feel hopeful looking up at the sky. Instead, he feels particularly small and irrelevant and most of all, stupid. He feels so, so stupid. He _is_ stupid.

He was stupid then, too, for kissing Ryan, for letting Ryan kiss him. Stupid when he agreed to do it again, even more so when he enjoyed it more and more each time they did. He had been stupid tonight, as he watched in silent horror as it was all ripped from his grasp, torn away from him in an instant and completely destroyed. And he’s stupid, now, for thinking Richie would show any signs of professing his feelings for once. 

For all the years Eddie has know Richie Tozier, he has never known him to be emotionally vulnerable. Not when they were kids and his father slapped him for mouthing off to him at dinner. Not when he called Henry Bowers a “cousin-fucking hillbilly” and he beat Richie near senseless for it. Not even when they faced _It_. He’d laughed and joked through it all, no matter the gravity of the situation. Like nothing could ever truly harm him. 

Eddie wonders just how he does it, and how he’s remained intact after everything he’s been through. He envies Richie for how infinitely brave he is. Always has, always will. Eddie can only dream of being as strong as Richie. 

“I wasn’t really looking for the bathroom, you know.” Richie speaks finally, takes the silence with his words and shatters it completely. There is an air of truth to them, like he intends to tell Eddie everything he is thinking. 

“I was looking for you,” he admits, frowning. Eddie looks over to him, mirrors his expression. 

“What?” He blinks in shock. 

Richie leans forward, sits criss-cross on the hood and runs a hand down the side of his face. He looks almost flustered. “ _We_ were looking for you,” he corrects sheepishly, a faint look of panic flashes in his eyes. “Some guy told me you went upstairs with someone, and I thought maybe it was a girl, or—I don’t know.” His shoulders sag, “I was gonna barge in and make this whole big scene to embarrass you, and then…” 

Eddie’s heartbeat accelerates in his chest. “You saw us,” he finishes for Richie, who has succumbed to guilt and cannot bring himself to say anything else. “Rich…” Eddie inches toward him attentively, brings a hesitant hand toward the one still balled into a fist in Richie’s lap. He stops just before his fingers graze the skin of Richie’s knuckles, and places his hand on his bicep instead. 

“It was weird. It was really fucking weird,” Richie says honestly, “but not because it was you and another guy. It was weird because it was like…” he takes a deep breath as if to steady himself and then exhales, “it was _you_ and _another guy_.” He puts a strong emphasis on the last part and Eddie isn't quite sure what to make of it. Except, that’s kind of lie, since he is, but he doesn't know if that’s how Richie means it. 

He brushes the thought aside and presses his lips into a thin line. “It’s okay, Richie,” he insists, a nervous smile paves its way onto his face. In some attempt to ease the tension between them, he laughs halfheartedly. “I get it, I’d think it was weird, too.”

Richie appears more or less self-conscious from where he sits alongside Eddie on top of the car. Eddie is perplexed by the awkward ambiance that emits from him; Richie: the boy who is never embarrassed by anyone or anything. Who has no shame, nothing to hide. Except, Eddie is seeing him in a whole new light now. He is being shown a side to Richie he’s only ever caught glimpses of before. It is, Eddie reflects, the first time he has seen him exposed like this. Even if it’s subtle, barely visible to anyone who doesn’t know Richie as well as Eddie knows him, it is there. Candid and bare. 

Eddie clears his throat and decides to change the subject.

“I think Homecoming was the drunkest I’ve ever been,” Eddie professes, attempts a lighthearted smile. 

Richie snorts. “Yeah, I was stoned out of my mind,” he recalls, smile reflecting Eddie’s. “I think I got Stan high, too.” 

“Yeah?” Eddie laughs as Richie nods and chortles “oh, yeah.” 

“Honestly,” Eddie starts with furrowed brows, “I’m surprised I didn't throw up. Ryan made me drink a lot,” he finishes vaguely. 

Richie blinks several times and settles on giving Eddie a very strange look. “ _Made_ you?”

“Well, I just didn’t really want to drink is all,” Eddie explains.

But Richie is still skeptical, that much is obvious from the expression etched onto his face. His dark eyebrows disappear behind unkempt curls, bright eyes harden with suspicion. “But he got you drunk,” he flatlines. 

“I let him,” Eddie replies with a shrug. He’s not sure what the big deal is. 

Richie stares at him blankly. “Eddie, are you hearing yourself? You _let_ him get you drunk? You didn’t really want to drink, but he forced it on you anyway? What the fuck, Eds?” He asks incredulously, evidently furious with Eddie’s obliviousness. 

But it isn't until Eddie hears the way the words leave Richie’s mouth that he comprehends how truly awful they sound. He panics and searches for a way to rephrase them, but he remembers Homecoming night distinctly— probably better than he should. 

The memories are vivd and loud, and his recollections of telling Ryan “no” countless times are not obscured. They are clear, discernible. He knows that he said no; he said it in the living room, the kitchen, the hallway—even in Ryan’s bedroom. No, he didn’t want a drink, no he didn't want another, no he didn't think he and Ryan should kiss anymore. 

A myriad of protests—that Eddie had repeated and meant—and Ryan ignored each and every one of them. He pushed and pushed and pushed, and Eddie had just… Eddie just let him. Eddie allowed Ryan to force drink after drink into his hands, allowed him to keep kissing and touching him even though an awfully meticulous voice wanted him to do everything but. Let Ryan string him along behind closed doors, all while he flirted with girls at school and acted as though Eddie did not exist, aside from the times he’d pulled him out to the abandoned fields during lunch or coaxed him into the empty restrooms. Let Ryan kiss him that first month of school. He let Ryan do all of these things, tolerated all the hiding and the secrets and the lies, and for what? 

They were never… dating. They never went out together, never called each other pet names, never even held hands or did anything couples do (or at least, what Eddie is pretty sure they do). They kissed, they touched—and that was the extent of it. 

He guesses he should blame Derry, and he does. For it’s repressive atmosphere and tolerance for people like him, people like Ryan, or lack thereof. But he can only put so much of it on the town they live in, because the truth of his relationship with Ryan lies deeper than the cruel makings of their hometown. 

Relationship—Eddie inwardly scoffs—is a far cry from whatever bullshit he and Ryan did. It’s humiliating, really, how easily Eddie had fallen into the trap Ryan had so clearly set for him. Whatever Ryan asked for, Eddie gave. 

Simply because Eddie wanted to be wanted. Because Eddie needs to be needed. Because he has spent his entire life being manipulated. Controlled. Pushed around. It is all he has ever known, so how was he to know the difference between being used and being desired? 

A fire lights within Eddie then, as he digs his fingers into his thighs. His eyes burn holes into the ground, every inch of him fills with anger and regret. 

No, Ryan never forced Eddie to do anything. But he never listened and he never cared, either. He pretended and pretended and Eddie was desperate enough to believe him. 

Ryan never wanted _Eddie_. Only what Eddie could _give_ him. 

The worst part of it, is that Eddie knows he should hate Ryan. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not after everything that happened—not after what he saw. Eddie tries and tries and tries, but he can’t bring himself to hate him. He’s not sure he ever will.

“Eddie,” Richie’s voice is unyielding and clear, and Eddie snaps his head up to look at him, startled. “Did Ryan ever… He didn't force you to do anything, did he? ‘Cause I’ll beat him senseless, sincere. I’ll kick him in the balls so hard his kids won’t be able to have kids. I’ll—”

“No! No,” Eddie assures him, presses his palms to his cheeks. “He never forced me to do… Stuff.” But he did know how to turn hesitation into willingness, and he had no problem persuading Eddie. “He wasn’t like that.” He bites down on his tongue to keep himself from saying more. To keep his thoughts from hurling him down a never-ending spiral of despair. 

Richie looks far from accepting of this answer, but doesn’t push it. Eddie is glad—he doesn't want to talk about Ryan or the nature of their relationship anymore. It’s starting to make him sick, in more ways than one.

Richie leans against the windshield, his shoulder brushing Eddie’s, and blows out a puff of air. It dances in the cold winter air and vanishes with the breeze. 

Eddie shivers as the wind blows. He wraps his arms around himself in some attempt to stay warm, and finds himself getting lost in the night sky once again. He can see Mercury among the stars, shining brighter than any of them, bigger and bolder. He wonders how something so far can shine so bright.

“S’weird how different the sky looks out here,” Eddie sighs. “It’s like we aren’t even in Derry anymore.”

Richie looks as if he’s on the verge of making a bad _Wizard of Oz_ reference, but settles for a simple “yeah”. Eddie is beyond grateful; he’s heard the Wicked Witch impression far too many times. 

“You ever think about just packing up your shit and leaving?” Richie asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He turns his head toward Eddie, and Eddie does the same. “Like, just get up in the middle of the night and, I dunno… never come back?”

Eddie pulls his legs into his chest and leans his cheek against his knee, keeps his eyes focused on Richie. “All the time,” he says in a mumble.

The tiniest of smiles softens Richie’s features, and Eddie feels a strange pang in his chest as they stare at each other in the dark. 

“You’ll get out of here, Richie,” Eddie says then, “definitely. Derry’s way too small for your big mouth.” He teases with a grin.

Richie snickers and throws and overly affectionate arm around Eddie’s shoulders, knocks their foreheads together. “I think you mean _we_ , Spagheds,” Eddie rolls his eyes (and his heart flutters, but no one can see that), “‘cause I ain’t goin’ nowhere if mah partner ain’t by mah side,” Richie drawls in some sort of Southern accent. It’s God awful, and he should probably issue an apology right then and there, but Eddie laughs anyway. 

“I’m serious, Richie—” Eddie persists with a discerning glare. 

“About us leaving together?” Richie interrupts brightly, and pulls his head back, leaving Eddie colder than he was before. “Great! So we’re on the same page then. I knew you’d agree, Eds,” he smirks. 

Eddie folds his arms across his chest and gives Richie a pointed look. Richie, however, only beams in return. 

He gives a theatric sigh. “I know, I know: ‘don’t call you that’,” Eddie opens his mouth to argue, but Richie is quicker, “but I mean it, Eddie. One day, you and me, we’ll leave and never come back.” His voice is level and honest then, eyes locked on Eddie’s with a look that bleeds sincere. 

Eddie looks back at Richie—really looks at him—and then holds his pinky out to him. “Promise?” He asks with a quirked brow. 

Grinning, Richie hooks his pinky with Eddie’s and nods once. “Promise.” He echoes and leans forward to press a kiss to the tip of his thumb—something he hasn't done since they were kids. Eddie smiles and does the same. 

Neither make a move to detangle their pinkies and in a moment of confidence, Eddie’s weaves his fingers with Richie’s. He lets their hands fall in the space between their hips and gives Richie’s a squeeze. Richie squeezes back, and Eddie is reminded of the night they held hands just like this in the warmth of Bill’s basement. How safe and comfortable he felt then and how he feels the same way now. 

He imagines this is what coming home feels like. To be comfortable and safe and warm. All of the things he spent so long searching for, things he thought he’d found in Ryan, were things he’d already found. He found comfort in the Barrens, reserved for summer days and endless bickering. Safety in Richie’s bedroom on nights sleep avoided him. Warmth when he was surrounded by the people he cared for the most; seven souls bound together by the strength of a single promise. A faded scar on the skin of their palms. A shared secret in each of their hearts. 

Eddie blinks and brings his gaze back to Richie, who he finds is already staring at him. When their eyes meet, Eddie’s heart swells in his chest. The corners of his mouth turn up into a fond smile. 

Richie grins right back, and maybe Eddie doesn't quite know how it feels to be in love, but he does know how it feels to sit here in the dead of night, on the hood of a car that is in desperate need of a wash, next to who he thinks may just be the best person he’s ever known, and decides that it is close enough.

**Author's Note:**

> pls leave ur thots, drop some kudos, whatever u feel like  
> (i live 4 them so)
> 
> u can visit me @ michelllejones on tumblr dot com


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